A Cottage in Spain

by Rosalind Brett

  Maxine was mixing a Martini, three parts gin, one of vermouth and a few splinters of ice. Without speaking, she drank it down and poured another which she stood beside the place set for her at table.

  Anna said disapprovingly, “One should drink only wine with food. This Alicante is of Don Jaime’s best.”

  “When your opinion is required it will be asked for,” said Maxine with studied insolence. “Serve the food!”

  “Senorita,” cried Anna, appealing to Linda, “have I not the right to speak as I find?”

  “Pour a little of the wine for me, please,” said Linda, thereby creating a precedent which so astounded and delighted Anna that she forgot her sense of outrage and rushed away for more glasses.

  The methodical business of eating and drinking—the crumbling of a roll, the forking up of an omelette, the peeling of an orange—soothed Linda into a state of undemanding expectancy. She did not speak to Maxine because she was hardly aware of her, and as soon as the meal ended she got up, grasped the bag firmly, and went down to the beach.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “MY dear Linda,” wrote Aunt Natalie in her beautiful copperplate; “The chances are very much against your finding this letter, yet I should not like to pass from this life without writing it. I am old-fashioned enough to believe in Fate, so that it seems to me that if it is right for you to come across the letter, you surely will. And I feel that the time at which you discover it, too, will be the right time. How long have you been here at the cottage, I wonder? Are you yet married to Sebastian?”

  Linda quivered, and for a while she could read no more. That remarkable handwriting, the faintly quizzical tone, brought her aunt close. She remembered the Senora de Meriaga’s last visit to England, the artistic hands, the voice which was kind and husky. And she recalled, too, her aunt’s description of the cobalt sea which at this moment was creaming up almost to her own feet, and the rocky shore which travelled on and on along the Costa Brava towards France. “The wild coast,” Aunt Natalie bad said, “which has been known to make the heart wild and ungovernable.” Linda took a deep breath and read on.

  “But I must not think too far forward. Perhaps you are of an inquisitive mind and have explored the writing desk almost before you have explored Sebastian. If I were less tired, I would tell you how I picture your first sight of the cottage and your first meeting with the nephew I have always loved so much. Are you too young to realize that I feel for Sebastian as if he were my son, and for you almost as if you were my daughter? I think not. At sixteen you were a serious child—or were you only fifteen?

  “And now that eccentric will of mine. It was made three years ago, just after you had sent me a snapshot of yourself taken on your eighteenth birthday, but I had decided its terms some time before. It was not until I fell ill a few weeks ago that I questioned the wisdom of the will, and even then I was still sure that it must be good for any Englishwoman to marry a Spaniard. It is only now, when my strength is ebbing, that I begin to doubt.”

  There followed a long passage about the felicity she had found in her own marriage, in spite of its childlessness. Linda’s eyes were misty when she came to the end of it, but her lips smiled a little. Aunt Natalie had never been in the least sorry for herself.

  “And so, my dear, I decided to let the will stand, but to write a letter to Senor Garcia (witnessed by Anna and Maris, Gonzalez without their knowledge of its meaning), which must be opened should you or Sebastian marry some other person within a year of my death; if you marry each other it is to be destroyed unread. I am going to tell you the contents of that letter, Linda, but you are not at liberty to tell anyone else.

  “Sebastian is a fine and charming young man, but I know that you, at twenty-one, will be the stronger character. That is why I am so anxious for this union. The young English heart, however, will not be coerced, and if the marriage does not take place it will be because you do not wish it. Sebastian has already given his word that he will do his best to make you love him. If he fails it will be because you and he are truly incompatible, and I feel that he will quickly marry some other woman.

  “So this letter which is in Senor Garcia’s possession is a radical alteration of the will. If Sebastian marries, he is to have the house for six months of every year, while you occupy it for the other half-year. At the end of the first year in which you forgo this right, you will forfeit the house to him completely. Somehow, I feel that if you do not marry each other, this last is what will happen. This may seem hard, my dear Linda...”

  The letter fluttered from Linda’s hand and she pressed cold fingertips to her brow. What did it mean? Was she free at last or had she missed the point? That letter held by Senor Garcia must be in the nature of a new will, or a long codicil. But why tell Linda and not Sebastian? He stood to gain by it—but perhaps that was the very reason why Aunt Natalie did not wish him to know till after he had taken a wife. Possibly she had thought that a woman who would marry a younger son without money or prospects would be that thing she admired, a woman of “character”.

  What a kind, peculiar person her aunt must have been. Yet she had known very definitely what she wanted even if her methods were tortuous, and she had meant, in the last event, to have what she considered best for Sebastian, not for Linda. And with this Linda was content, for Sebastian had proved during the senora’s lifetime that she had meant a great deal to him.

  She drew up her knees and clasped her arms about her legs. The letter lay unmoving in the sand beside her and for the first time she saw the final sentence and the signature: “In any event you will have seen Spain, my child, and that is a privilege you will never forget. Forgive me if I sign myself, Sebastian’s Tia Natalia.”

  Linda felt drained, but relieved. Now, Sebastian could marry his Carmen and live with her in the cottage which he had felt for so long to be his own. Presumably he would also receive the allowance which was to have been Linda’s. They would be happy, those two; Carmen would see to that. But what a pity it was that she, Linda, could not go to him with the news! They had to fight through, face family opposition and other uncertainties, till they were well and truly married. Still, it would be a wonderful wedding present. Linda did hope Sebastian would come and see her some time today.

  She got up but did not go back to the house. Visitors seldom showed up before five and she could not face another session with Maxine. Though she supposed she ought to be grateful that Maxine had hidden the passport; a true case of good emanating from evil, because she felt so much better now about Sebastian.

  A few young people were playing on the beach, and Linda gave them a smile as she passed. Some boys had staged a “bullfight,” and one of them played his pet dog with consummate skill, wearing his vaquero costume like a matador and thrusting with a stick from behind his cape. The dog pranced and barked, having the time of his life, and a ten-year-old wag looked coy and threw an imaginary flower.

  She reached the steps and went up to the harbor. The little shops were opening after siesta, and on the harbor wall, dangerously close to the edge, a youth lay on his back, singing a melancholy song to the intermittent twanging of his guitar. “Pescados!” yelled an old woman who sat behind a smelly basket of sea food, and when Linda shook her head and smiled, a pair of leathery old hands gestured as if it didn’t matter at all; it was good to sit in the sun whether one sold the fish or had to tip it back into the sea.

  Linda walked as far as the plaza and, on an impulse, she went into a small ancient church which was hidden away in one corner. Architecturally the church was a gem dating back to the days when the Moorish influence was at its strongest. But even more than the church she liked the adjoining priest’s house, which was now a hostel. The stair-case was beautifully carved, the ceilings ornate, and each bedroom had its tenth-century prayer niche and a barred window from floor to ceiling.

  She came out into a shower of rain and crossed quickly to the cafe where she had once sat over a cup of coffee with Philip. While the shower spen
t itself she drank a lemon syrup, and because there was nothing to watch but the slanting grey needles of rain, her memory went over that letter of Aunt Natalie’s, and back further, to Philip’s invitation. She knew, unmistakably, that she would not back out. She had as much right as Maxine to that couple of days in Majorca. She would take them, and not look ahead. A last fling in the accepted manner!

  From staring rather fixedly at her drink, she looked up and saw Sebastian standing over her, his expression intense and agonized.

  “You’re the man I want to see,” she said involuntarily, “Will it compromise you to have a syrup with me?”

  He bowed stiffly and sat down at the round table. Rain glistened in large spots on the shoulders of his velvet jacket and his fingers clenched over the plastic ashtray as he stood it on its edge and dug it into the table surface. He looked handsome and taut.

  “I have been trying to find the courage to see you today,” he said, with none of his usual insouciance. “My father has told me that I behaved like an oaf towards you at the fiesta, that I danced too much with ... with other women. You must appreciate, pequena, that I did it at your bidding.”

  “Sebastian, please!” She was actually able to laugh at him a little. “I couldn’t dance, and it was only natural that you would want to. Besides, I like her very much—Carmen. You look marvellous together.”

  His eyelids flickered. “I do not care to hear you speak that way, and I beg you not to laugh. I danced and drank too much last night, but it is so long since we had a fiesta that I forgot myself. I wish to ask your forgiveness.”

  “But you mustn’t! I was glad to see you happy.”

  He shook his head in an impatient, foreign manner. “You do not understand. Or perhaps,” he paled slightly, “you have already spoken to the Englishman?”

  “Yes, I have.” Gently, she added, “Sebastian, it’s all right. Go ahead and marry Carmen, and if...”

  He blazed, suddenly. “What are you saying? I gave my consent to nothing. I am in love with you—not with Carmen! And it is like a sword at the heart when you tell me to love another woman. I cannot do it!”

  Linda looked about her apprehensively. There weren’t more than half a dozen others under the cafe awning, but every one of them was highly interested in herself and Sebastian. Fortunately, it was unlikely that they knew English. She thought of the letter in her bag, which lay so near and yet so distant from him, on the table between them.

  “Don’t let chivalry lead you to say things that aren’t true,” she begged him. “You know I’ve always thought of the cottage as belonging to you, and I want you to have it, Sebastian, for the rest of the year. After that...”

  He broke in again, with passion. “I am not thinking of the house! I wish at this moment it would fall into a thousand pieces. Dios! Will I never make you believe I love you?”

  She chilled. It sounded as if he believed what he said. At the other tables men leant farther forward over their coffee cups. One actually offered advice in Spanish, but Sebastian had no ear for it. They knew him, and Linda wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that they knew her, too.

  She said soothingly, “You’re upset, Sebastian. I see your father’s car is at the kerb. Will you take me home?”

  With a visible effort he performed the task known as pulling oneself together. Very correctly, he helped her into the car and with the minimum of grating the gear slid in and they were away. Poor Sebastian, she thought. He didn’t love Carmen quite enough. And didn’t it seem that he might become genuinely fond of Linda? No, she couldn’t quite believe that.

  When they arrived at the cottage he went with her into the porch, his hand above her head to shield it from the slackening rain. The door stood open but she hesitated because she didn’t really want him to come in; not in this mood.

  His eyes glittered at her. He looked at her mouth and his nostrils dilated, sensually. Rapidly he said, “You are the one I want! Believe no one who says otherwise!” And he took her swiftly into his arms and kissed her.

  Linda didn’t see him go. When he released her she was reeling, and gazing into the delighted, astonished face of Anna.

  * * *

  The rest of that day was so quiet and uneventful that the short interlude with Sebastian faded like an incident in a dream. Maxine’s two friends from Barcelona called for dinner and took her on to another friend of theirs up the coast. Linda went to bed and, contrary to expectations, slept almost at once.

  On Sunday Hugh Reeves called for her as he had promised, and she lunched with him on the veranda of his house. He asked for the latest news about Sebastian and Carmen, but she told him only enough to prevent further questions. There were many other things they could talk about. In his boyhood Hugh had known her smoky town and the lovely countryside beyond. He thought he even recalled Braden’s Bookshop; wasn’t there one of those mock-Tudor teashops nearly opposite?

  He was called away to the nursing home and she read a magazine for half an hour. They had tea together when he came back, and he lent her a couple of recent novels. She was on her feet, ready to go with him to the car, when he asked,

  “Did Philip know you were coming here today?”

  She nodded. “I told him. Maxine and I are going with him to Majorca tomorrow.”

  “Are you?” he sounded disturbed. “For long?”

  “Perhaps two days. Don’t say you think I shouldn’t go, because I want to, very much.”

  “Then you must certainly go.” He hesitated. “I won’t even offer you advice. Only ... do be careful of that friend of yours, Linda. How you two became friends isn’t my business, but I can’t feel that she has much affection for you, my dear. And Philip isn’t easy to confide in, is he? I’d like to think you’d come to me, if you were in difficulty.”

  “Thanks,” she said warmly. “Some people one never gets near, but I feel as if I’ve known you for ever.”

  His smile was half rueful. “It’s not a romantic sign, I’m afraid. This is the first time I’ve ever wished I were ten years younger!”

  “I like you as you are,” she said, as she got into the car. Sebastian was ten years younger than Hugh, and what a problem he was turning out to be!

  There was a car outside the cottage when they arrived there, a small Continental affair of a bygone vintage. At the gate the doctor asked to be excused from coming in. He had to make a couple of calls. He hoped she would have a happy time in Majorca, squeezed her hand and got back into his car.

  Halfway along the path Linda’s pace slowed. Two people were in the glassed-in end of the patio, Maxine and a man who stood near her chair. For a minute Linda was tempted to go round to the back of the house, and then it occurred to her that to escape was weakness. So she went up the steps into the porch.

  The man might have been of any nationality, but he spoke English like a Spaniard. He snapped shut a notebook and slipped it into his pocket and gave Maxine a businesslike smile.

  “I will not keep you any longer, senorita.” Seeing Linda, he clicked his heels and bowed. “I am enchanted to make your acquaintance, Miss Odell. You will pardon me?”

  Before Linda could answer he had bowed again and was walking down the path. To Maxine she said, “Why did he call me Miss Odell?”

  The slim shoulders in oyster-colored silk shrugged negligently. “Don’t ask me. I’ve given up trying to find a reason for anything a Spaniard might do.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “I’ve never seen him before.” She tapped a cigarette on a rose-pink fingernail. “How was the session with the doctor?” The amazing thing about Maxine, thought Linda, was her capacity for riding daintily over any potholes which might exist between herself and another, particularly when it was she herself who had created the potholes. She was lying back in her chair, thoroughly at ease, the lighted cigarette between scarlet lips, jade green trousers tapering toward slim bare ankles. She looked as if she owned the place. Maxine was one of the word’s unassailable darlings; she
could behave as she liked and, because she was lovely to look at and supremely self-confident, she got away with it. Linda replied briefly. “Very enjoyable.”

  Maxine opened her lips a fraction and blew a veil of smoke. “I’m told Hugh Reeves is looking for a wife.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’ve also heard that he’s interested in a Spanish woman writer who lives somewhere along that coast. Bad luck, Linda. You couldn’t hope to compete with a Spanish intellectual.”

  “How right you are.”

  “Now you’re getting cross. By the way, Sebastian called about an hour ago. He asked me to tell you that he has to visit an uncle inland—escort his mother there, I think he said. He’ll be away all next week but will see you next week-end. If you wished,” a pause during which she flicked ash on to the stone flags, “you needn’t see him again.”

  “That’s right. I needn’t.”

  Being civil to Maxine was such a strain that Linda went indoors at once. And because merely being in the same house with the other woman was almost insupportable, she began to look out two light frocks and something to wear in the evenings in Majorca.

  * * *

  It was ten-thirty on a warm, breezy morning when the steamer left Barcelona with Philip, Maxine and Linda on board, bound for the largest island in the Balearics. Everything had been accomplished with the smoothness one might expect of any project sponsored by Philip Frensham. He had picked them up at a quarter past nine and driven them into Barcelona, where he had parked the car. They had seen the town coming awake; the trams, taxis and vans, the strollers and chatterers, the bootblacks and beggars, the lottery ticket vendors and the desultory carriers of flower baskets in the Ramblas. Sleepy young men yawned in the kiosks which would later sell cigarettes and sweets, and someone was preparing xuxos, which looked like doughnuts and could be smelled half a mile away. This morning there was an excitement and freshness about Barcelona; to Linda, anyway.